Though We're Strangers 'Til Now
by Sidney Quinn
Summary: "I can help you forget. But at a price." James Conroy sees things. A throne, a girl, a crystal, a babe. And has a nagging feeling that there's something very important that he's forgetting.
1. No One Can Blame You

Their little game had come to a rather abrupt end.

The Goblin King stood facing his enemy, pain and anger coming off his white feather-clad form in waves.

"Sarah, wait—" he pleaded with an outstretched hand. "Look at what I am offering you." He flourished his hand before her, a crystal appearing on his fingertips. "Your dreams." His confidence in his control over the situation had quickly morphed into desperation. She wasn't supposed to have made it this far. And he certainly hadn't anticipated becoming so...attached.

Sweat formed on his brow. As she parted her lips to say her final words and seal his fate, his heart sank. It was over. His Labyrinth had been defeated—_he_ had been defeated—by nothing but a stubborn little girl. His world began to spiral rapidly out of control.

_"You have no power over me."_

It destroyed him.

He sank to his knees on the crumbling stone floor. She was gone. She had won, after all. How could he have been so weak to let her through his defenses? How had it come to this?

_"But what no one knew was that the Goblin King had fallen in love with the girl..."_

He brought his hands to his face, letting his disheveled blond hair fall around him. The girl had, unbeknownst to her, inflicted irreparable damage upon the Labyrinth, and by proxy, upon Jareth himself. How could she have refused his offer? But then, how could she ever have accepted? He let out a groan of frustration as he tore his face away from his hands. He stood, shakily, and ripped his cloak from his shoulders, throwing it on the floor of the destroyed Escher room. He could not live with himself for what he had allowed to happen. How desperately he wished to forget the girl who ate the peach; the girl who had, against all odds, defeated him; the girl who had captured his heart. How he despised her for what she had done. How he longed to drive her from his mind.

Suddenly, a voice, feminine and pure, rang out from the darkness. "I can help you forget."

Jareth looked up, even though he knew he would see nothing but the destruction around him. The Spirit of the Labyrinth. Rarely did she manifest in ways that allowed them to communicate. He was listening.

"I can help you forget," echoed the Spirit of the Labyrinth. "But at a price."

Jareth looked down at his hands, encased in white leather, before lifting his head and gazing into the distance. His eyes glazed over. He was not himself. He knew he should not be striking a deal with the Labyrinth while in such a state. But it did not stop him. "I will pay it."

There was a silence. "I do warn you not to be rash, my King," the Labyrinth replied.

"And I do _warn you_ not talk back to your King," he spat, his raw emotions getting the better of him. "Or do you forget your maker?" Jareth could almost swear he felt the Spirit of the Labyrinth flinch and retreat into the shadows, not that it was capable of such physical action.

"Very well," said the Labyrinth solemnly.

He stood, waiting for something to happen. "Well?" he asked impatiently, placing his hands on his hips. A bead of sweat slid down his temple as his labored breathing slowed.

Then, softly from the darkness: "It is done."

Those were the last words the Goblin King heard before his world went dark.

* * *

"Look, I just don't think this is working."

Sarah Williams pressed her phone to her ear with her shoulder, careful not to drop the basket of clothes that were precariously balanced on her hip.

"No, Joel, you haven't done anything wrong." She felt like a mother comforting a child. This time was no different than the last. She sighed as she placed her basket of clothes next to a free washing machine. Sarah tried to make out the slew of desperate, muffled words that came out of her phone's speaker, but someone had just started the machine right next to hers.

"Sorry, what?" A pause.

"No, I'm doing laundry. Look Joel, we went on two dates. Two." She emphasized the number by counting with her fingers in the air, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Sometimes things just...don't work out," she finished as she pushed the rest of her clothes into the machine and fished around in her jean pocket for quarters.

"I'm sorry, Joel." She wasn't.

"Yep, I'll see you around." She wouldn't.

Sarah heaved a sigh of relief as she hung up her phone and shoved it in her back pocket. Were all men really so fragile? Maybe she just had bad luck. The worst luck. Maybe she should take a break from dating, she thought. Focus more on her career.

Sarah had moved to Los Angeles eight years ago to pursue a career in film. Not in acting, as had been her passion when she was young, but in production. After college, she had miraculously landed an internship at a major studio, and had worked her way up from there, to her current position as a production coordinator. The work was tough, the hours were long, but it was what she loved. She had left acting behind a long time ago, after _that_ incident.

As a child Sarah had, what her father and stepmother called, an overactive imagination. Even at fifteen years old, she was convinced that faeries and goblins were real, and professed that she could see her otherworldly friends through the mirror in her bedroom. She had overheard the phrase "coping mechanism" more than once in hushed exchanges between Karen and her father.

For years, she refused that her run through the Labyrinth had been a dream at all. How desperately she had wanted to believe that she had saved her baby brother from the hands of the Goblin King, in a fantastic journey filled with twisting walls, riddles, and ball gowns. But as a woman who had recently hit thirty, who was finally getting somewhere professionally, she didn't have time to dwell on such fairy tales. Or at least, that's what she continued to tell herself. On lonely nights, her mind couldn't help but wander to those cold, mismatched eyes belonging to that ethereal, harshly cut visage.

_"Your eyes can be so cruel."_

Sarah tore herself away from her thoughts as she opened the door to her small Koreatown apartment, clean laundry in tow.

Her enormous Norwegian Forest Cat leapt off the couch to greet her at the door. "Hi, Ludo," she cooed as he weaved between her legs. She bent over to pet him as she put her laundry down. "Do you need your dinner?" She looked up at the clock, and nearly jumped when she saw the time. "Shit!" She had promised to meet a few of her coworkers at an art exhibit opening downtown this evening. Considering it would take her about thirty minutes to get there on the subway, plus another ten to walk, that gave her about...ten minutes to be out the door.

"Shit, shit," she muttered as she rushed into her room to get changed. Luckily, she had already picked out what she was going to wear-a pleated, navy, knee length dress with flats (she had always been the practical sort when it came to clothing). She didn't bother with makeup, but quickly brushed her hair and pinned her bangs to the side, then turned to her mirror to make sure she looked presentable. With a sharp nod, she grabbed her purse and rushed out of her apartment in an effort to catch the next train.

"Sarah!" her coworker called as she neared the gallery. She waved in acknowledgement. "You're just in time!" he called. It was opening night, so only press and a select few were allowed to attend. Her coworker had a connection at the gallery, and was fortunate enough to secure a few spots on the guest list. Since moving to Los Angeles, these types of events seemed a regular occurrence. She loved it.

"Thanks for getting me in to this, Kevin." She motioned around her, beaming. "This is great."

"No worries, Sarah." He smiled as he handed her a wristband. "It seemed like it was right up your alley."

She looked down at the paper band as she secured it around her wrist. "Geometry of the Fantastical," it read. She still had a soft spot for the passions of her youth, although she was not usually keen to admit it. As she was about to make small talk with her coworker, Kevin's eyes found someone else he knew. Smiling at him in thanks, she nodded, dismissing him to search out others he had acquired wristbands for.

Sarah entered the rather narrow gallery, already crowded with press and artists discussing their work. She decided to start at the bar, and picked up a glass of chardonnay. As she slowly made her way around the room, she was awestruck by the pieces on display. Perfectly etched lines formed shapes that somehow made up a dragon, and another piece showed a scene of faeries in a forest, constructed entirely by recycled materials cut into small pixel-like squares. There was even an incredibly detailed sculpture of a medieval castle, made out of origami paper. She found a few of her coworkers, all of them equally as impressed with the variety of talent at the show.

Sipping on her wine, she began along the back wall of the gallery. But as she turned to continue, a single piece made her stop in her tracks. It was easily the largest piece in the gallery—how had she not noticed it before? She approached it in awe, but with a healthy dose of trepidation. She stood before it, studying it, unable to look away. The piece was what appeared to be a blueprint of a maze. 'Not a maze,' she thought. A labyrinth. The same labyrinth that she had run through and defeated fifteen years ago. 'In my dream,' she added. Yes, in her dream. That's all it had been—a dream. But every turn, every detail, seemed exactly the same. It must have been a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. But if it were, why did she suddenly feel the need to in some way justify what she saw before her? She reached out a hand hesitantly with the intent of touching the glass of the frame. But before she could continue with her observation, she was torn away from her thoughts as a deep laugh pierced the air.

She knew that laugh.

She willed herself to move, but she was frozen to the spot. It couldn't be. Then, a voice all too familiar to her—and much too close—rang out in a clipped accent that cut through the noise of the busy gallery.

"What do you think of my labyrinth?"


	2. You Remind Me Of

"What do you think of my labyrinth?"

Sarah turned slowly, her eyes wide, terrified of who she would find standing behind her. She sucked in a ragged breath as she looked up at the man before her. "You..." she started.

Their eyes met. They were _his_ eyes. Crystal blue, one pupil larger than the other.

But, at the same time, they were not his eyes. There was no coldness, nor mischief. Only confusion, and perhaps concern.

He looked down at her kindly, a hint of worry gracing his features. 'His very not Goblin King-like features,' Sarah noted as she exhaled shakily. She took a moment to study his face. No swooping eyebrows, no ridiculous makeup, no glitter. No unruly hair, just plain blond locks, cropped short, which he had apparently tried to slick back, but were nonetheless falling around his face in disarray.

"Are you alright?" he asked, tilting his head to one side. "You look rather ill."

Sarah was jolted out of her appraisal of him, and felt her cheeks grow warm. She must have been losing her damn mind. This poor man. "Y-yes, I'm fine," she choked out, her voice betraying her.

The man before her narrowed his eyes for a moment, then forced a tight lipped smile. "I'm sorry if I startled you," he began in what Sarah guessed was a London accent. "I just noticed that you were looking rather intently at my art piece."

She reluctantly turned her attention back to the elaborate blueprint of a labyrinth — the labyrinth—looming before them. "Oh, this is yours?" Her voice cracked and she mentally kicked herself for it. "It's...uh, very intricate." Her eyes avoided his as she took a hardy sip of wine.

He paused, following her eyes. "I'll...take that as a compliment," he replied warily.

'Get a grip!' Sarah yelled internally. "I'm sorry," she apologized, looking up again and forcing a smile. "You just remind me of someone I used to know."

He laughed again, softly. It made her uneasy, even though he smiled kindly. "Well, judging by your reaction, I suppose I should be glad I'm not him."

What was the matter with her? "I'm so sorry," she said again. "I'm being rude." She turned back to his artwork, doing her best to be courteous. "This is amazing work." She meant that part. "Are you really the artist? You're..." she squinted at the small plaque mounted on the wall next to the canvas, "James...Conroy?" She looked back up at him, skeptical.

He seemed to relax a bit. "No need for apologies. And yes, I am." He extended a pale hand. "James."

She hesitantly reached out and accepted his handshake. "I'm Sarah." She smiled politely, not entirely sure why they were introducing themselves. As her hand met his, a static shock passed between them, causing her to jump.

"Sorry," he said, his eyebrows again knitting into a worried expression. "The air is rather dry here, isn't it?"

She laughed nervously. "Yes, it is."

An awkward silence fell upon the two as they each avoided looking each other in the eye. Sarah took another sip of her wine. She noticed that he didn't have a drink. Her eyes darted around the crowded gallery, but found no sign of her coworkers. She decided to turn her attention back to the art piece before her.

"So tell me, James," she started. His name was thick and awkward in her mouth. "What was your inspiration for such an...exquisite piece?"

"It's funny you ask," he replied, attempting to lighten the mood. "I'm actually not sure. I'm an architect, you see, so such designs come naturally to me. But this piece is rather...different from my usual designs."

"I'd imagine so." Sarah pretended to study his work politely. Every line, every angle, every detail of the blueprint was so intricate and precise, as if the artist had committed the design to memory. And if Sarah was being honest with herself, she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The image was uncannily similar to her memory of the labyrinth of her childhood dreams. But how could it be? It must have been something like that...what did they call it, the Mandela Effect. Maybe everyone had had a dream of the same maze, at one point or another, or at least thought they had. Which would make complete sense as to why this James Conroy had created a blueprint of it, yet was unable to explain why.

_"Things aren't always what they seem, in this place."_

As she reasoned with herself, she noticed that he had grown quiet beside her. She looked over at him, only to catch him staring at her. His cool blue eyes met hers. Those chillingly familiar eyes. Noticing that he had been caught staring, he quickly looked away, causing a few more strands of his golden hair to come loose. Sarah shifted her weight between her feet, looking down at her empty wine glass. She used it as a means to excuse herself from this increasingly uncomfortable situation.

"Well," she started rather abruptly, "it was very nice speaking with you, Mr. Conroy. Congratulations on the piece; it's quite interesting." She nodded at the canvas and forced a smile, but did not make eye contact. Before he could respond, she dipped back into the crowd, making her way back to the bar.

Sarah didn't look back, but if she had, she would have seen James Conroy looking after her, a distant look of something resembling confusion marking his features.


	3. Show You A Good Time

"In nine hours and twenty-three minutes, you'll be mine!"

He held a child—a small child, no older than two years old—on his lap. But while this was odd, it was far from the strangest aspect of his surroundings. He sat upon an unconventional throne, and around him, absolute chaos ensued. There were...were they children? They seemed child sized, but upon closer inspection, they were certainly not. Not human children, at least. The room was packed with these beings, and was, as a result, an utter mess.

"Shut up!" he called out to the room, in a harsh voice that he barely recognized as his own. A few of the creatures cackled. Live poultry was tossed across the room. What was this, some kind of twisted comedy sketch?

He stood and stepped off the throne, something unfamiliar weighing heavily on his chest. He resisted. He didn't like this dream, he had decided. But as he descended from the throne against his will into the room's drunken cacophony, his foot slipped. His vision blurred, and he fell face first onto the cold stone floor.

_"Time is short."_

James Conroy jolted upright in bed, his bare chest beaded with sweat. He was surprised to find himself breathing heavily.

"Nine hours and twenty-three minutes," he muttered under his breath. He could scarcely remember anything else from the dream that had so abruptly shaken him from his already restless sleep. He looked at the clock. 3:04 AM. He inhaled deeply as he swept his bangs back and away from his face, before standing from his bed to escape the suffocating warmth of his sheets.

He felt around in the dark for the edge of his window curtain. Upon finding it, he tore it open, letting the moonlight flood his apartment and wash over his pale skin. James breathed deeply as he gazed out over downtown Los Angeles, finding relief in the fact that he was firmly rooted in reality and that his dream had been exactly that.

Even so, sleep did not return easily that night.

* * *

"Excuse me, excuse me, sorry." Sarah apologetically pushed her way through the dense crowd at the metro station. She made her way up the stairs as quickly as she could manage—which wasn't actually very quickly at all when accounting for the two bottles of wine in the picnic basket she was carrying. A group of her friends had invited her to the Hollywood Bowl tonight, LA's largest outdoor amphitheater. She wasn't familiar with who was playing (a lineup of folk bands whose names maybe sounded familiar), but no one in their right mind would turn down an invite to picnic at the Bowl, especially not on an evening as nice as this one.

She made her way from the metro station to the venue, kicking herself for bringing two bottles of wine instead of just one. 'Damn this hill...' she cursed as she slowly made her way up the steep concrete slope that led to the entrance. But when she saw her friends at their designated meeting spot, she waved happily, and all frustration was forgotten.

They made their way to their seats—on wooden benches very close to the back row—and set up their spread of food and drink. There was still over an hour until the opening band came on, but there were already several groups and couples around them, well into enjoying their evening.

She looked out over the thousands of seats and stage below them. There was nothing quite like a warm evening at the Hollywood Bowl. Surrounded by mountains and trees, insulated from the bustle of LA, it almost made her forget she was in a city at all, and made her reminiscent of her upbringing on the east coast. Sarah refilled her glass with rosé. Soon enough, she and her friends were all laughing furiously at just about nothing.

The opening band came on, but no one seemed to pay too much attention. Sarah and her friends were still having a riot in the back of the amphitheater. It wasn't as if you could actually see anything that was happening on the stage anyway; that was why it cost top dollar for box seats, which surrounded the stage in a U formation and filled about half of the amphitheater. The boxes had tables, folding chairs, and even attendants to bring you food and drinks, if you so desired. But Sarah was just as happy back here, surrounded by friends, even if they were in the nosebleeds. As they were opening another bottle of wine, Sarah excused herself to use the restroom.

On her way back, and after taking a detour to the merchandise booth at the bottom of the hill, she took note that she was experiencing a pleasant buzz from the alcohol. She made her way back up the hill to her seat, and it sounded like the opening band was nearing the end of their act. In interest of time, she decided to pivot and take a shortcut through the middle of the arena.

Sarah rounded the corner, and walked directly into a solid wall.

But walls don't make an "oof" sound when they're walked into, nor do they exist in the middle of walkways.

Sarah came to her senses, and began apologizing profusely to the quite masculine chest she had unintentionally assaulted. "Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry, I wasn't looking where I was..." she trailed off when she noticed that whomever she had run into was still standing there, and hadn't said a word.

She looked up slowly, and found herself looking into a familiar set of blue eyes, which, as a small consolation, seemed as equally surprised as she was.

"Uh—" she began awkwardly. There was no mistaking whose eyes they were. "Mr., uh, Mr. Conroy, I'm so sorry, I just, what are the chances of seeing you here, I—" She was rambling. Or was she flustered? It wasn't like her to be either. But then again, it also wasn't like her to run into someone in Los Angeles twice in a week under two entirely unrelated circumstances.

He seemed to overcome his surprise as he responded. "Ah, I met you at the...gallery opening last weekend, correct?" From his expression, it seemed that he was struggling to recall how he knew her. "Sarah, was it? And please, call me James."

She really wasn't trying to be formal; she had honestly just forgotten his name. Yes, James. That's right.

"Are you alright?" he asked rather worriedly.

She heard a roaring applause coming from the audience, but did her best to ignore it, raising her voice a bit to make sure she could be heard. "Yes, fine, I'm fine. I just...didn't expect to see you here." She let out a short laugh that reminded her of the noise her cat Ludo made when he was startled. She bit her cheek.

"Well that makes two of us," he smiled in a thin line. It was fake. He was trying to be polite. "Are you here alone?"

Was she here alone? That was an odd thing to ask. "No I'm...here with a group of my friends," Sarah replied, motioning to the back of the audience. "...You?" For inexplicable reasons, a small part of her wanted to know the answer.

He didn't answer immediately. "I...," his eyebrows knitted together as he broke eye contact. After a brief silence, he looked up again, a smirk spreading across his face and glint of mischief in his eyes. "Would you like to sit in a box seat?"

"In a...wait, what?" It wasn't his offer that surprised her as much as, "You're in a box?"

His smirk widened, which Sarah wouldn't have thought possible, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Through my firm," he explained, seeming to know that she would question him further. "The other in my party canceled at the last minute."

So he got stood up at the Hollywood Bowl, is that was he was trying to say? Suddenly, Sarah felt a bit bad for him. But she quickly shrugged it off, since there was nothing about his mischievous grin that looked particularly disappointed. Normally, there was no way she would have said yes. She didn't know this guy, familiar as he may have seemed. She had seen him once, at an art exhibition last week. Coincidence, yes. Reason enough to accept an offer to sit with a virtual stranger? Probably not. But she was two and a half drinks in, and if she was being completely honest with herself, there was something about this James Conroy guy that was _too_ familiar, and the more adventurous part of her wanted to find out why.

"You won't regret it." He leaned down to her ear, causing an unwarranted shiver to travel down her spine, and whispered, "They really are fantastic seats."

She was grateful that he couldn't see her blush in the dim light. "Let me just...let my friends know where I'll be."

"Box 1051," he called after her. But she was already on her way up the stairs to inform her friends that there had been a slight change of plans.

* * *

"Wow, you're right, this is incredible!" Sarah exclaimed, much to the chagrin of those around them. She was swiftly shushed, and put a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. The second act had just come onto the stage.

"After you," James said softly, ushering her into the box. There was an open bottle of red wine on the table, a single glass, and a generous spread of cheeses, crackers, olives, and charcuterie. Her eyes widened. Had she known she would have scored such upscale seats tonight, she might have worn something nicer than jeans and a cardigan. Tugging on her clothes, she awkwardly inched her way to her seat in the private box, being careful not to disturb anything on the table.

James took the seat across from her, and she immediately noticed how out of place he looked. He seemed a bit cramped, although he was awfully thin. But there was something else about him that didn't sit quite right with her, and for the life of her she could not place what it was.

"Is this okay?" James asked, noticing that she had grown quiet. He raised his eyebrows, tense as he waited for an indication that all was well.

"Yes!" she said abruptly. "I mean, yes, this is great," she continued, motioning to the stage. When she glanced back at him, she noticed him staring at her with those cold blue eyes again. She shifted uncomfortably. Sarah had been in a box at the Bowl once before, but she certainly hadn't remembered it being so small. She felt her cheeks grow warm. 'The wine,' she concluded in thought. 'Definitely the wine.'

As if on cue, he procured an empty wine glass out of nowhere, slid it in front of her, and motioned toward it with the bottle. She nodded, and immediately took a hearty gulp. It was good wine.

"So," he began. The way his eyes fixated on her while she swallowed unnerved her.

"So," she repeated, placing her glass down on the small table between them. "What are the chances of us running into each other twice in a week, right?" She forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

He placed his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and leaned forward. "Indeed."

There was an awkward pause. James leaned back before delicately taking an olive from a nearby plate and popping it into his mouth. With his mouth still half full he asked, "So, what is it that you do, Sarah?"

What was it about the way he said her name that sent a chill down her spine? "I, um, I work in the film industry. In production." She was hesitant about doling out too much information to a relative stranger.

"And do you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I do," she answered confidently. "Believe it or not, I used to want to be an actress. I can't even imagine that now." She looked past him, lost in thought.

"Did you?" he asked, seemingly distracted as well. Sarah couldn't tell if he was actually interested or not.

"What about you, James? I know that you're an architect. And I bet you're from the UK, right?" Yes, Sarah, of course he's from the UK, not from some fictional labyrinth with goblins and glitter and oubliettes. She nearly laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the idea.

"What brilliant powers of deduction, Sarah." His lips slid into a smirk. "How did you guess? Don't tell me it was the accent."

She blinked at him. "Hey, are you making fun of me?" Her words came out sounding significantly more childish than she intended. She crossed her arms, but couldn't help crack a smile. What a character, this James.

He let out a short laugh at her reaction, but didn't dwell on it. "In all seriousness though, yes, I am an architect, from London. I'm afraid there's not much else to say. My life isn't particularly interesting." He shrugged.

"That's plenty interesting!" she exclaimed.

James's mouth snapped shut and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Sarah broke eye contact and reached for a piece of cheese. "I mean, it doesn't sound boring, is what I'm trying to say."

He shifted his weight so he was leaning over the table again, and lowered his voice. "It certainly hasn't been since I moved to this city."

Sarah swallowed. "Hey, I think the headlining band is about to go on."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed and the audience began to applaud. He sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. "Shall we ask them to fold away the table?"

Sarah wasn't as focused on the music as she ought to have been. She couldn't stop herself from glancing over at the man sitting next to her, who didn't seem to be entirely committed to watching the performance himself. She couldn't help but notice how every so often he would brush his hair out of his face, or how he crossed his limber legs in the kind of way that American men can never seem to pull off. She watched intently as his hands would grip the armrest of his chair and would tense, then relax, then tense again. She also noticed that he was wearing black leather gloves, which she attributed to being a foreigner thing, because no one in their right mind would wear leather gloves in Los Angeles at any time of year. The show continued like this, each of them shooting the other quick glances, and pretending that they didn't see the other doing the same.

"You know, Sarah," James started during the intermission. She sat up a bit at her name, nodding for him to continue. "I know this must sound strange, but I can't help but feel that I know you somehow." He paused, searching her face for a reaction, but seemed to second guess his comment. "Is that odd?"

"No," she said quickly. "I...feel the same way." She smiled at him.

The show and its encore came to an end, and the crowd began filtering out of the arena in an orderly fashion. The music actually ended up being quite enjoyable, and Sarah made a mental note to herself to buy the headlining band's album.

They exited together, walking with as much space between them as the crowd allowed. It wasn't much. "Did you drive here?" James asked above the noise of the crowd.

"Oh, no way, I took the metro," she stated matter-of-factly. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"May I offer you a ride home?" He motioned to the stacked parking lot across the street with a gloved hand. "My car isn't blocked."

She wasn't worried about whether his car was blocked in; she was in no rush. Though as much as she would have in any other situation appreciated a ride home at midnight in Los Angeles, she hesitated to accept. How many times had she met this man—twice? She didn't actually know anything about him, except that he was an architect and worked somewhere that gave him box seats to the Hollywood Bowl. 'And looks surprisingly like someone who plagued your childhood dreams, and is unconventionally handsome, and makes you feel incredibly uneasy for one or both of those reasons,' she added mentally. "Thanks for the offer, James, but I'm fine," she said confidently, waving her hand in front of her.

"Are you sure?" he looked over at her and slowed his pace.

Sarah placed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Totally sure, I'll be fine. You've been so generous already, I don't want you to go out of your way."

_"I have been generous. I can be cruel."_

"If you're sure, then." He pursed his lips, concern and uncertainty marking his features. "Take care, Sarah.

She only nodded in response, turned away, and proceeded to speed walk through the crowd to catch the last train.

When she finally made it home, Sarah closed and locked her apartment door behind her. She proceeded to lean against it and, with a big sigh, let out a wave of tension she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. Ludo meowed loudly, rubbing incessantly on her legs.

Exhausted, she walked into her bedroom while stripping off her cardigan, and proceeded to throw it over the mirror on her dresser. She jumped onto her bed and face planted into a pillow, letting her legs dangle off the edge. But just as she was about to reach for one of the many books on her nightstand, she felt something sharp dig into her leg. Startled, Sarah leapt off the bed. There was something in her pocket.

She reached into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a slightly bent white business card that she definitely hadn't remembered putting there. It was blank on one side. She flipped it over with a snap.

"James Conroy, Architect," it read. The card also listed an email address and a phone number.

How on earth had he put a card in her pocket without her noticing? Surely she would have felt…? She didn't finish that thought. Sarah smiled, and then spoke aloud, perhaps to Ludo, who had jumped up onto the bed in her place. "James Conroy, I don't believe you realize what you've started."


	4. Life Can Be Easy

The work week passed slowly for Sarah. She had just been assigned to a new project, and while she would have normally been ecstatic, she just couldn't seem to focus on anything except her run in with James at the Hollywood Bowl last weekend.

She still held on to the bent business card that he had somehow managed to slip into her pocket, but every time she sat down next to her phone to call, she froze up. What if he didn't want her to call? Of course he wanted her to call, or else he wouldn't have so slyly put his card in her jeans. What if he turned out to be a total creep? What if he was after more than she could promise? Like the last, what, five guys she had dated? Sarah rolled her eyes as she reasoned with herself.

She would be lying to herself if she said she didn't find him attractive. Who wouldn't? With that slim figure and that unruly blond hair and those strange eyes that looked just like—

"Hey Sarah, mind giving me a hand here?" Her coworker Kevin was precariously holding a stack of binders filled to the brim with manuscripts, and they looked as if they could topple over at any moment.

"Jesus, of course," Sarah said, snapping out of her reverie and rushing over to take some of the binders off Kevin's hands. "Where do you need these?"

"Just over there." He motioned with his head to what Sarah assumed was the table on the opposite end of the office. "Thanks, Sarah."

"No problem, Kevin." She sighed as she put down the binders, and put her hands on her hips. "How have you been? I feel like I haven't seen you since that gallery opening. Which was phenomenal, by the way."

"Oh, same old same old," he replied, seeming to relish the opportunity for some office small talk. "It really was a fun gallery, wasn't it? Did you see that labyrinth piece? Talk about incredible!"

Sarah paused. She wondered how much she should tell him. Yeah Kevin, actually, I ran into the artist at the Hollywood Bowl last weekend and was more or less his date?! No, that would require way too much explanation. "Yeah, the attention to detail was unprecedented," she started. "I actually happened to meet the artist while we were there..." she chose her words carefully. "Do you know much about him?"

Kevin's eyebrows shot up, and he dropped the binder he had been mindlessly sifting through. "James Conroy? You _met_ James Conroy? By 'met' do you mean you actually talked to him?"

Sarah was confused now. "Yes...I talked to him. What, is that a big deal? I'd never heard of the guy before I saw that piece." Definitely never heard of him. Never seen him. Definitely.

Her coworker brought his hand to his chin, as if he was thinking of how to carefully phrase his next words. "Well, I don't want to say too much," he started cryptically.

"Oh come on," Sarah interrupted, trying her best not to sound too desperate. "You've gotta tell me now. Is it something scandalous? Is he a criminal?" Why her mind thought of those two words specifically, she wasn't sure. 'Does he steal babies and turn them into goblins?' she thought with a laugh.

"No, no, nothing like that," Kevin continued. He now seemed intensely focused on the office's carpet flooring. "He's actually kind of an architectural prodigy." He returned to flipping through a binder on the table.

Sarah turned her lips down in confusion. "What's the problem with that? That's pretty neat, right?"

"Well, he has...a history, of sorts." He looked up at her and sighed when he saw how intrigued she was. "I don't know Sarah, I've only heard rumors from the gallery owner. It could all be fake." He paused, concerned by her sudden intensity. "Anyway, what's got you so interested?"

"Oh, no reason," she said much too quickly for it to be convincing.

Kevin rolled his eyes and smirked at her. "Okay, cool, then I guess I don't have to go around spreading rumors about famous architects," he shrugged.

Sarah let out a sigh of frustration. "All right, Kev, be that way." She knew he didn't like being called that.

He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just not the right person to ask, that's all I mean. I don't know the whole story. Maybe you should ask him yourself, if you really want to know. I hear he recently moved to LA from London for a long term residence at a firm downtown."

"Is that right?" She feigned disinterest, snapping one of the binders shut.

* * *

When Sarah got home that evening, she immediately powered on her computer and threw herself into her leather office chair. After about a minute, she clicked her mouse a dozen times, even while knowing that it wouldn't do any good. "Hurry up," she muttered to her PC. Ludo jumped up into her lap, taking up the entirety of it, and she scratched behind his ears absentmindedly.

She wasn't entirely sure how to approach this. She opened her email client and watched as the cursor blinked, taunting her. She hesitantly placed her fingers on the keyboard.

_Dear James,_

_I found the card you put in my pocket. I guess you know that, or else you wouldn't be reading this._

That was stupid. She held her finger down on the backspace button and started over.

_Dear James,_

_You look just like this guy I saw in a dream once when I was a teena_

She held down the backspace button again. That would definitely scare him off. Why was this so difficult? She took a deep breath and tried once more.

_Dear James,_

_I'd like to get to know you better. I usually don't say that to men who sneak their cards into my pocket. But then again, not many do._

_-Sarah_

Her finger lingered for just a moment before hitting the send button. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and leaned back in her chair, causing it to roll away from her desk. "Ludo, this is crazy," she said very seriously as she looked her cat in the eye. He made a short chirrup noise, but promptly went back to purring in her lap. "You wouldn't understand."

Sarah sat there for a while, lost in thought. When would he see her email? What would he think? Would he even respond? She cursed herself over how giddy she was getting about all of this. He was just a guy, it wasn't a big deal. Sure, he had a cool accent, was obviously pretty well off, and was apparently into her, if he had gone through the trouble of hiding his business card in her clothes. The thought made Sarah blush.

A _ping_ sound came from Sarah's computer, and she was so startled that she sent Ludo tumbling from her lap. She clumsily rolled her chair forward and leaned in toward the screen. That was fast.

_Dear Sarah,_

_I am quite pleased that we are in mutual agreement about the subject. Name the place and time, and I will be there._

_-J_

She let out a silent scream. Of course he put the meeting place on her. She racked her brain for ideas of where they could meet. Definitely somewhere public—the something about him that excited her also unsettled her—and also somewhere neutral. Downtown was too tricky, the west side was too far. Then, a thought came to her, and she snapped her fingers and started to type.

_James,_

_How about the La Brea Tar Pits, this Saturday, 2:00 pm. Have you been there?_

_-Sarah_

The Tar Pits were exactly what they sounded like—pits of tar thousands of years old, still exposed, that had become an archaeological hub as well as a tourist attraction. There was even a museum on site. Sarah hadn't been there since she first moved to LA several years ago.

Not a minute later, another _ping_.

_Sarah,_

_I haven't been, but am quite interested. Let's call it a date. I'll see you then._

_-J_

She guessed that one didn't warrant a response. Sarah bit her thumb. It would be a long two days until Saturday.


	5. Get Me Out of Here

The air smelled absolutely foul. It was the smell of a rotting corpse, the smell of something that had gone off two hundred years ago—a smell worse than anything James could describe.

The world was blurred, as if he were someone with a very strong glasses prescription who had neglected to wear their corrective lenses. James extended his hand out before him, testing his vision. Surprisingly, his hand remained in focus. In his hand was a crystal, and he was doing things to it that he hadn't imagined possible. Twisting it about his fingers, up his arm—this was him, wasn't it? But it wasn't. Something was wrong.

"If she ever kisses you, I'll turn you into a prince."

Who was "she"? And who was she to kiss? He couldn't make out who he was talking to. None of this made any sense. The crystal rolled across his fingertips and he—

"Hey!"

James snapped out of his reverie to see Sarah walking swiftly toward him. She was wearing a loose maroon top, and jeans that hugged her figure nicely, her long chestnut hair blowing in the wind. He quickly moved his own hair out of his face and smiled to greet her.

"Sorry I'm a few minutes late," she started, squinting into the sun as she looked up at James, who had been standing by the front gate of the La Brea Tar Pits. Her eyes drifted down his pale neck and to the unfastened top button of his deep blue shirt. "The bus wasn't running on schedule. I hope you weren't waiting long." She swept her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears.

"Not long at all," he said with a smile as he removed his hands from his pockets.

Sarah's green eyes went wide, startled by his use of the phrase that was eerily familiar to her. Apparently she stared for too long, and a frown of concern graced his otherwise stoic face.

"Would you have preferred I wait longer?"

"No!" she exclaimed, immediately wishing she hadn't.

He smiled in amusement at her frustration, placing his hands on his narrow hips.

A silence passed between them, and Sarah crossed her arms, unsure what to do with them. A hug would probably be inappropriate, a handshake too formal. Luckily James seemed to be having the same internal dilemma, and they were both content to keep to themselves.

Moving on quickly from their awkward meeting, James relaxed his shoulders a bit and motioned toward the tar pits. "Shall we?"

Sarah nodded sharply in response. Why was she so jumpy? It wasn't like she was new to the dating world, so what was her deal? She took a deep breath in hopes to shake whatever had her on edge.

The park had two significant attractions: the tar pits themselves, and the museum. The main tar pit, the size of a large pond, lay encompassed by a fence to their left, the museum to their right. The rest of the park comprised of rolling green hills, walking paths, and smaller tar pits that were being actively excavated. But above all, there was one thing about the park that was impossible not to notice.

"That smell, huh?" Sarah asked colloquially, wrinkling her nose. The tar pits were naturally occurring, after all, and they smelled like, well, tar. And sulphur. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but there were worse things. 'Like the Bog of Eternal Stench,' she thought to herself. Although how she could remember a smell from a dream, no matter how vivid, escaped her.

"You're certainly right about that," replied James, grimacing. "Had I known you'd be leading me into a swamp I may not have been so keen to come along." He looked over at her and smirked, revealing a row of unusually sharp teeth.

_"If I thought for one second that you were betraying me, I'd be forced to suspend you head first in the Bog of Eternal Stench."_

Sarah clenched her teeth, focusing on the path ahead of them. "It's not a swamp, it's a tar pit. Swamps are unpleasant, but a tar pit will kill you if you fall in," she stated matter-of-factly as they neared the fence of the largest pit. She motioned to the life-size mammoth sculptures that had been positioned just so along the edge of the viscous black pond. A female mammoth lay trapped, crying for help, as a male mammoth and their child watched on helplessly.

"Fair enough," James conceded. "And even if you did survive, you'd likely smell like this forever. Which do you think would be worse?"

Sarah dramatically rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure that's the way it works."

"Then please, Miss Williams, do explain how it does," he drawled. They reached the fenced parameter of the largest pit, and slowed to a halt. Sarah looked up at him to find him staring at her quite intently.

"You're serious." It wasn't a question.

"Completely."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I think it has to do with the adhesiveness of the tar. It's like sinking sand, but more powerful because the tar is so heavy." She shrugged. "I think smelling bad would be the least of your worries, if you were that mammoth over there." She nodded at the lifelike statue, perpetually frozen in the bubbling muck.

James nodded contemplatively, making a noise of agreement.

"But I'm no expert. There's a whole museum over there that probably explains it." She turned around and motioned to the museum on the opposite side of the path.

"Well, then." He pushed his hair out of his face, and cocked his head toward the building. "Lead the way."

Once inside the museum, James offered to pay for their admission, but Sarah was adamant that she pay for her own. He let her, begrudgingly, but insisted that he at the very least help put on her wristband. She was capable of doing it herself, of course, but didn't have it in her to argue. She displayed her wrist to him, palm face up, as he gently wrapped the strip of paper around it with his gloved fingers. Those weird gloves again. He tore the sticker off slowly, and delicately secured the band. His fingers lingered on her wrist just long enough for Sarah to notice, but he released her hand before she could pull away. She knew he was looking at her, but she turned away in an effort to conceal her rapidly heating face.

"Let's go this way," she stated as she pointed absentmindedly to her museum guide. She moved briskly down the hallway to their right, James in no way struggling to keep up with her quick pace. He does have long legs, she figured. Best not to dwell on that. Stay on task, Sarah. First stop—

"Sarah," James said softly.

"Huh?" she replied, out of sorts.

"Your map is upside down."

She looked down at the museum guide she held in her hands. It was, in fact, upside down. She quickly turned it right side up, then thought better of it and stuffed it in her back pocket. Even without looking at him, she knew he had that smug grin plastered all over his face.

When she heard a stifled laugh, she looked up to find precisely what she expected. Sarah rolled her eyes and waved her hands in front of her, flustered. "Do you want to see this place or not?"

James collected himself, but a smile continued to grace his features. "In a rush, are we?"

The museum was busy—it was a Saturday, of course—but not so packed that one couldn't enjoy the various exhibits on display. There was a room filled with an enormous rotating timeline of the La Brea Tar Pits, followed by a wall of the first findings that had been excavated nearly a hundred years ago. Fossilized bones of various Ice Age creatures formed full skeletal displays in the museum's open areas, while glass cases of smaller findings lay encased in the walls. They approached a large glass window where real archaeologists were busy examining soil samples from the excavation sites outside. They then proceeded to walk into an area that contained enormous glass cases housing easily a hundred dire wolf skulls that had been pulled from the tar pits over the years.

Of course, no Saturday trip to a museum was complete without the occasional child throwing a fit of rage in public. A little boy who looked about five rolled around on the floor throwing a tantrum, screaming and grasping for something his flustered father had in his pocket. A small baby in its mother's arms, apparently upset by this display, began to wail loudly. Sarah grimaced, eager to move on before the scene devolved into complete madness.

She continued into a nearby hallway, but noticed after a moment that she was alone. And for what had not a moment ago been a madhouse, the room she had come from had gone awfully quiet. Spinning around, she saw James looking intently at the dire wolf skulls in the glass case, hands in his pockets. He seemed to be entirely unaware that both crying children—along with every other child in their direct vicinity—were staring silently, intently, and directly at him.

The toddler who had been throwing a tantrum went still, mouth agape, shining eyes wide like saucers. The fussy infant in its mother's arms reached out to James with its tiny fists, as if in a trance.

Nope, this was too weird. Sarah rounded behind her date, who was still too absorbed in the display case to notice the change in atmosphere, and guided him gently forward to the next room.

"Are you good with kids?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "A bit forward for a first date, don't you think?"

She tripped, but recovered quickly. "That's not what I meant." Sarah chanced a glance back at the toddler, who was now dribbling apple sauce down his front. Yep, time to go.

"Not particularly." It took Sarah a moment to realize he was answering her initial question. "I don't have much experience with children."

"Well, it seems like you're a natural."

"What makes you say that?" He smiled genuinely, placing a hand on her upper back.

But as she opened her mouth to respond, she was interrupted.

"Sarah, look at this." Something on the other side of the room had piqued his interest, putting their conversation on hold. He patted her shoulder before waltzing over to an exhibit on the other side of the room. Sarah blinked at the room behind them once more, then at James, before following.

He had come across a interactive exhibit about the viscosity of the tar in the area. Upon a platform were four tubs of tar encased in glass, each with a metal pole sticking out of them so museum visitors could test their strength against the pull of the tar. "Would You Survive?" a sign read that hung above the platform.

"I believe this may answer our question about how the tar works," James said seriously.

"Our question? You mean _your_ question," quipped Sarah. "Also, there's no way we can test your ridiculous theory that falling in would make you smell awful." She crossed her arms.

"Perhaps not," he answered, placing a hand thoughtfully on his chin. "Never mind, then." He shrugged and turned his back to the exhibit, beginning to walk back the way they came.

"Hey, wait!" she called after him.

He stopped, but didn't turn around to face her.

"You're not even going to try it?" She was a bit disappointed—a part of her had wanted to attempt pulling the pole out of the tar, even though the whole thing was probably marketed toward children. "What, too scared to lose?"

She'd said something right (or wrong), because at that, James slowly turned, and as he did, Sarah could feel energy radiating off of him in waves. There was a glint of mischief in his cold, blue eyes, as he replied deeply, "Is that a challenge?"

Now it was Sarah's turn to smirk as she stepped up on the platform next one of the cases of tar and pushed up the sleeves of her blouse with purpose.

"Well then." The words rolled smoothly off his tongue. Without breaking eye contact, he stepped up to the platform opposite her and mimicked her, carefully rolling up his sleeves to reveal smooth, pale skin.

Sarah refused to look away as she wiped her hands on her jeans before gripping the metal pole in front of her with both hands. He did the same.

"And what, may I ask, is the reward for winning?" His voice suddenly took on a very sinister tone, and Sarah shivered.

"I wouldn't sound so certain of yourself," Sarah retorted, doing everything in her power to stop her voice from quivering. "Ready?"

He nodded, and at the same time, they both pulled up on their poles.

Nothing happened.

James struggled, obviously trying to play it off like it was easier than it was, but his metal pole was stuck deep in the tar, and the harder he pulled up on it, the more the tar seemed to pull it down away from him.

Upon seeing his frustration, Sarah had a renewed burst of confidence and pulled up on her pole as hard as she could until her face was red. But it was no use—the tar was unforgiving and refused to allow the pole to move even an inch.

"Damn," she relented, letting go of the pole and watching it settle back into the muck.

"This is ridiculous," James said petulantly, his whole body now visibly shaking with the effort of pulling his pole out of the tar. He released it with a huff.

"Giving up so easily?" Sarah taunted.

"As if you're one to talk." James folded his arms across his still heaving chest. "This doesn't tell us anything."

"It tells us that we'd both die miserable deaths if we fell into this, considering we can't even pull a stick out of it."

James threw his arms up in the air in defeat. It amused her to see him this worked up over such a silly game. Perhaps he wasn't as stoic and serious as he'd like everyone else to believe. She smiled inwardly at this new realization.

He began to stalk over to Sarah with renewed resolve. And very suddenly, without warning, he mounted the same platform she was standing on, catching her by surprise, and situated himself behind her so he was flush against her.

She was frozen to the spot. She could feel him breathe, feel him move against her. And as much as she didn't want to admit it, she didn't terribly mind. Or, she wouldn't have, if this hadn't been a public museum on a Saturday afternoon. Her face was hot, and she was grateful he couldn't see her. Apparently though, he had other things on his mind.

"Try it again," he said from behind her.

She felt the vibrations of his voice travel through her, and she clenched her teeth. She didn't trust herself to speak, afraid her voice would betray her, so she did as she was told, and placed her hands again on the metal pole that stuck out of the case of tar in front of them.

As she did so, she felt James shift behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, placing his hands above hers on the pole. The soft leather of his gloves rubbed against her hands as they both pulled up on the bar. She felt him inhale, exhale, inhale as he struggled against the pull of the tar. And slowly, ever so slowly, the pole began to rise up out of the goo.

Sarah let out a cry of victory as the pole rose further and further out of the black sludge and toward the top of the glass case. She could have sworn she felt James grin behind her. With one final heave, the metal bar was released, and hit the top of the glass barrier, tar dripping from its sides.

"Yes!" Sarah let go of the pole and pumped her fist in the air so violently that it caused James to lose his balance and stumble backwards off the platform. She laughed as she jumped down to meet him, marveling at the ridiculousness of their situation. He was breathing heavily, slightly red in the face, and his white blond hair was a disheveled mess. Without giving it much thought, Sarah reached up and moved his hair out of his eyes before practically skipping down the hallway to the next room.

After exiting the museum, they continued to walk along the paths in the park, chatting about the weather and the dire wolf skulls and how sore their arms would be tomorrow. Once in a while, during a break in conversation, Sarah would look over to catch James looking at her through his blond locks, before they both looked away. Sometimes he would look over to catch her doing the same. They meandered from excavation site to excavation site, catching a snippet of a guided tour, and reading the informational plaques scattered along the paths. Sarah looked at the words, read them even, but she couldn't focus on their meaning. All she could think about was how James had wrapped himself around her on that platform; how the leather of his gloves had caressed her bare hands, how the warmth of his chest had radiated through his thin shirt, how he smelled of mystery and the last days of autumn.

James sighed and took a step back from the sign they were reading, then looked at his watch. "The park is set to close in a few minutes." Sarah thought he almost sounded as disappointed as she felt. But nonetheless, he began to turn away from the sign they were reading and asked, "Shall we begin our trek back?"

"Wait—" Without thinking, Sarah reached out and grabbed his hand.

_"Wait—. Look at what I am offering you."_

He looked down at her, jerking away in surprise at her touch. It was in that moment that Sarah saw something in James's mismatched eyes that unnerved her. There was a coldness there, a hardness—one that she knew. But as soon as she blinked, it was gone.

"I'm sorry." He brought a gloved hand up to his forehead and ran it anxiously through his hair.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...I mean..." Sarah rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. This was ridiculous. "Look, do you want to get a drink or something?"

An impish grin spread across his features, then, as he said smoothly, "I would be delighted."


	6. When the Sun Goes Down

Sarah knew just the place. There was a cozy little bar down the street from the Tar Pits that wasn't too pricey and wasn't too touristy. And finding a bar in Los Angeles that was neither was quite a feat, if she did say so herself.

They entered the bar through a heavy wooden door with an old metal handle that took two hands to open. It took a moment for Sarah's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Mellow music with a heavy beat played over the sound system, and only two people sat at the long wooden bar. Sarah chose a booth for them in the back, where the music was a bit quieter, with worn leather seats and a small candle that seemed to flicker to the beat of the music.

Sarah slid into the booth, waiting for James to do the same. But instead, he remained standing and asked, "What are you having?"

Realizing he meant to buy her a drink, she began to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. He looked at her expectantly.

"A rye old fashioned," she conceded, smiling. "Thanks."

She made herself comfortable as she watched him saunter off to the bar. He moved like liquid, and with an air that demanded attention from everyone in the room. Unless she was imagining things, and he was only demanding attention from her. Not that he was capable of doing that on purpose. Was he doing it on purpose? Gods, she hadn't even had a drink yet. Sarah took a deep breath and focused on relaxing her eyebrows. She had been so loathe to end their date when the Tar Pits closed, and as much as she tried to reason with herself, she couldn't seem to explain why.

Well, she had one reason, at least.

Sarah watched intently from the booth in the corner as James leaned against the bar like a pinup from an old magazine. He pulled out his wallet and slipped his card to the bartender between two long fingers. What would she do if he caught her staring? Was he expecting her to stare, or was this just how he went about existing? Her eyes trailed from his hand to his wallet to the back pocket of his pants where he tucked it smoothly. Sarah tugged on her shirt and smoothed back her hair, lost in thought.

A few moments later, her companion slid into the booth across from her, setting down her drink. "I hope this is to your liking," he said smoothly with a cock of his head. His unruly hair fell to one side, and he made another futile attempt to push it out of the way.

"Thank you," she said honestly as she took a sip. It was good. James had ordered a martini, by the look of the glass.

Without hesitation, he pushed his drink toward her, in a gesture for her to try it. Sarah glanced from the martini to his eyes hesitantly, and when he nodded in encouragement, she very carefully lifted the glass to her lips, her eyes not once leaving his. She swallowed hard, and observed with interest as his throat made similar movements.

"So James, tell me," Sarah began after pushing his drink back across the table and taking a hardy sip of her own. "What made you move to LA?" She realized that even given the time they had spent together, she still knew relatively little about the man sitting across from her. And the less she knew, the noisier that little voice at the back of her mind became, and the more it told her that something was amiss. She forced the thought away and focused on the situation at hand.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, having taken a sudden interest in his glass. His fingers trailed up and down the stem, and after what seemed like an awfully long time, he answered. "I suppose I wanted a change of pace."

"Fair enough," she replied colloquially. "But why Los Angeles? You could have moved anywhere. Paris, New York, Chicago. Why here?"

James remained intently focused on his hands, a finger now circling the rim of his glass. "I don't know."

When she didn't respond, he continued. "I could say it was the weather, I could say it was the work." He paused, exhaling in what wasn't quite a sigh. "But if I were to be completely honest with you, Sarah, I for some reason felt...drawn here." His tone was guarded, as if he expected her to claim he was insane and call the whole things quits.

Instead, she nodded slowly, looking down at her lap. "So did I." She shrugged, then sat back, letting her shoulders relax. "But who doesn't, right? It's Hollywood, the City of Angels, always sunny, always alive. It can be exhausting, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

At that, his eyes snapped up to meet hers, catching Sarah by surprise. "Wouldn't you?" He grinned, something foreign creeping into his voice. "Nothing?" The candle on the table illuminated his sharp features, giving them a harshness that brought back images of a certain fairy tale king in a similarly lit tunnel in a dream long ago.

_"Nothing? Nothing? Nothing, tra la la?"_

She felt one of her knees bump up against his under the table.

"Sorry—"

"Don't be," he interrupted. In the dim light of the bar, their eyes locked as he brought a gloved hand to rest on the table dangerously near—but not touching—hers.

She felt her breath catch, and for a moment, time seemed to slow down. Her eyes drifted from his eyes, to his nose, and then to his lips, slightly parted but pulled into that slight, perpetual frown he wore. He seemed to notice the attention, and she heard him draw in a shallow breath. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, and Sarah broke from the trance.

"You know, I've been wondering."

"Hmm," James responded through clenched teeth. He began to stroke Sarah's hand with a finger absentmindedly, still lost in the moment. His eyes were dark in the low light, so much so that his pupils, remarkably, appeared nearly the same size.

"There's something that's been bothering me." Sarah averted her gaze but smiled, relishing in the sway she momentarily had over him.

"Yes?" he practically purred. He moved his hand fully over hers as he leaned in closer over the table, ever so eager to hear what was troubling her.

"How did you manage to get your business card in my pocket without me noticing?"

It obviously wasn't the question he'd been expecting, because he leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling, and slowly ran his hands over the table's rough wood surface before letting them fall back into his lap.

"Oh, that." His features returned to their schooled expression. "I'm actually surprised it took you this long to ask."

Sarah furrowed her eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

He ignored the question. "If you'd really like to know, it's actually quite simple."

Cocky. "Alright then, enlighten me." She crossed her arms expectantly, her smirk only slightly betraying her.

He brought a gloved hand to her face, but stopped short of touching her. He held up one finger, then two. She inhaled the scent of worn leather, along with something else that she couldn't define. She half expected a crystal to materialize from thin air.

No, she didn't. That was ridiculous.

_"And if you turn it this way, it will show you your dreams."_

After seconds that seemed like minutes, James snapped his fingers sharply, and leaned back into the creaking leather of the booth, crossing his arms and looking quite satisfied with himself.

As soon as Sarah opened her mouth to protest that he had done nothing but wave his fingers in her face, he held up a hand to stop her.

"Look under your glass."

Her jaw snapped shut, and sure enough, when she lifted up her old fashioned, there on the table lay another of James's business cards, of the same variety that he had placed in her pocket at the Hollywood Bowl.

Her eyes widened, her mouth agape. "What...how?" She immediately regretted giving him such an ego boost as a toothy grin spread over his face.

He flourished a hand and made another card appear out of nowhere. He held it out to her between two fingers. When all she did was look at it suspiciously, he withdrew his hand, flicked his wrist, and the card disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.

She knew her face gave her away, but she needed to reign it in. She had enough dating experience—and life experience in general—to know that men didn't need ego boosts. Especially on dates. She used her raised eyebrows as an excuse to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. Been there, done that. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Only if you continue making it this easy, my dear."

Damn, too late. But who was she kidding? She was impressed. Sarah loved magic, that was no secret to anyone who knew her well. She had been fascinated by it as a child, and throughout adolescence. Granted, less by sleight of hand tricks and more so by the magical worlds, mythical creatures variety. But she found herself drawn in to James's parlor tricks nonetheless. There was something beautiful about the way he moved his fingers. But best not to dwell on that.

"So you magicked your business card into my pocket. Do you do that to every girl you meet?"

She couldn't tell if the suggestive look on his face was meant to read 'not just any girl' or 'not just girls', but it was gone before she had time to question it.

"You know what? Don't answer that," Sarah recovered quickly, waving her hand in front of her face. She decided to change the subject. "So you're what, an architect by day, a magician by night?" She meant it to sound condescending, but she'd be damned if she didn't find the prospect interesting to say the least.

James picked up his glass and swirled it around as if it were wine before taking a sip and looking at her intently over the rim. "Have you ever heard of the Magic Castle?"

Sarah nearly choked. Had she ever _heard_ of the Magic Castle? It was only one of the first and most exclusive magic clubs in the world, situated in the heart of Hollywood in an old 1900s era mansion. The only way to gain access was through a member, and the only way to become a member was, well, a secret that the members kept well. But all members were magicians. And those few who were granted access were widely considered to be some of the best magicians in the world. Those lucky enough to visit were guaranteed a night of drinks, good food, and the best sleight of hand, card tricks, and illusions in the world. It was a magical playground for adults. And it had been Sarah's dream to go since she had learned of its existence years ago. But she wasn't about to tell James that; not in so many words.

She took too long to answer, apparently, because he cleared his throat.

"Of course," she blurted, nearly forgetting what his initial question had been. "I mean, of course I've heard of it." She bit her lip, hoping the enthusiasm in her voice wasn't too apparent.

"Would you like to go?"

"Would I like to—what?" There was no way he was serious. Although considering all of the literal and metaphorical tricks James Conroy seemed to have up his sleeve, she wouldn't put it past him.

"How about next Friday at six?" He leaned in across the table again, resting his chin on intertwined fingers.

"I—" she was speechless. Apparently he was serious, after all. Having nothing else to say, she stammered, "That's not...too soon? I thought it was hard to get reservations."

"You give me so little credit, Sarah." He smiled then, placing a hand regally on his chest. "When one is a member of the Academy of Magical Arts, such things are of little consequence."

That was the Magic Castle's official name. And of course he was a member. Sarah let out a laugh of surprise and disbelief. "Well, James, color me impressed. And I assure you it's not easy to do." She leaned in to meet him, scooting forward until she was sitting at the very edge of her seat. "So, Friday?"

He flashed his mischievous grin that Sarah refused to admit was growing on her. "It's a date."

She nodded in agreement, setting down her empty glass with resolve and a satisfying thud. "It's a date."


End file.
